Issues
by Monamourz
Summary: Romano and America start dating, but it brings to light a whole slew of abandonment issues that Alfred has been hiding. Rated for language and mild suggestive themes.


Romano first suspects something when they begin dating and America is suddenly all over him. Everywhere they go, the idiot is holding his hand, touching him, talking to him, never letting him out of his sight. It's as though he's terrified something will happen, and it's fucking obnoxious.

Still, after he tells Alfred off, the younger nation blushes in shame and yanks his hand back like he's been burned. Then he ducks his head and doesn't talk to Romano the rest of the day. They had gone out to look for a book Romano wanted, and to get gelato and tomatoes. Normally, Alfred bounces through the markets, advising him and singing silly songs and being horrifically affectionate. (All the vendors know Romano, and the gushing praise he and America get only serves to agitate him.) But after Romano's quick reprimand ("Christ, bastard, you don't have to be all over me, I'm going to suffocate in your burger stench.") he is lifeless, avoiding any contact with the Italian and quietly following him through the markets.

Romano lasts until they get home; then he explodes. "What the hell is your problem?"

Alfred jerks like he's been hit. "I…I'm sorry," he says quickly, but he keeps his eyes and head down, his whole body curving away from Romano like he's afraid.

"That doesn't answer my question, dammit," Romano hisses, and thumps the tomatoes on the countertop. He'll warm them in the sun first; they always taste juicer then, and sweeter. One of the few useful tips he learned from Spain. (Others, less useful, include 'men's nipples are sensitive too!' and 'always give strong, quick strokes when wielding an axe.') "What happened to you? You've been acting like a mopey child. It's kind of irritating."

America flinches backwards, like the words have physically struck him. "I don't…I'm sorry," he repeats desperately. "I wasn't thinking. I can do it right next time."

"Do what right? The hand-holding? No, look, just stop being so clingy, I can't damn well breathe when you're-"

America's eyes are wide and he's staring at Romano and looking so lost that the half-nation is suddenly concerned. "Alfred?"

"I'm…_pleasedon'tleavemeI'msorrydon'tleave_," the superpower chokes, and he almost gags on the words he spits them out so fast. Romano watches as Alfred rocks forward, his arm reaching out before he yanks it back, like he isn't allowed to touch Romano.

The half-nation is completely lost but realizes this is something he must stop before it escalates. Mind racing, he remembers that Alfred likes hugging. Really likes hugging. Any contact at all, really. America is a very social nation. So Romano awkwardly holds his arms out and gestures for a hug.

America rushes into his arms so fast, the half-nation almost falls over. "What…?" Romano wonders in confusion as Alfred wraps his arms around him and clings tightly. "Alfred, what's happened?"

Alfred just shakes his head and buries his face in Romano's shoulder (which is no easy feat…Romano is rather the shorter of the two) and they stay like that for a while.

Then they share sun-warmed tomatoes and gelato and iced tea and Romano forgets all about the curious incident because America starts eating the gelato with a lot more licking and sucking and tongue-swirling than strictly necessary and Romano intends to do something about it.

. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . . .

The second time it happens, Romano is staying at Alfred's house in New York City when his brother calls him.

"Why are you calling me, idiot? The long distance calls are so fucking expensive over here-"

"Romanooooo!" Feliciano wails down the line. "Come help meeee!"

"What? Why? What happened? Oh, fuck, is it France? Feli, listen, you need to kick him in the balls, okay? I know he told you he's got pasta in the alleyway but you can't believe him-"

"It's not brother France!" Italy giggles, like Romano is stupid.

"Well then dammit Prussia, I know you can hear this, and get off my brother you freak, just because he's nice and you like to pet little boys and creepy shit-"

"Ve, fratello, Gilbert's not here either! But I _am_ locked in a pantry."

"What." Romano resists the urge to cry. "How did…never mind. Get potato bastard to free you."

"Ve, I can't. He is in here too!"

Romano drops the phone and stares at it for a minute before he regains himself and starts cursing wildly. A string of Italian comes boiling out of his mouth; he isn't quite aware what he's saying but it's probably bad. Feliciano, on the other end, starts wailing. "Please help! It's cramped and hot, ve. Owwww Germanyyyy don't touch my curl, it – _ah_! Is it caught?"

"Stop molesting my brother!" Romano shrieks into the phone.

Over his brothers prolonged, "Veeeeee" he hears Germany in the background, roaring, "Stop putting your hands there, they're sliding down my pants! And if you're going to sit on my lap don't keep moving – _oh_ –"

Romano dislikes the breathless ending to that little saga and cusses out Germany, his dogs, his brother, his parents, his boss, his food, and his terrible strategy as a lover. "Listen, you idiot…**listen**!" He barks the last word and the phone on the other end goes silent. "I'm taking the quickest plane I can get to you, okay? Don't you dare try anything. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Ve, plane? Where are you?"

Fuck. Right. The relationship has kind of been on the down-low. Romano kneads his temple and then pinches the bridge of his nose and mumbles, "'Merica."

"America? What are you doing there?" Germany asks distantly.

"Ve, don't lean in so close to talk!" Feliciano protests, "your breath tickles—_eee_!" There's a loud crash, brief shuffling, and then Feliciano regains the phone. "Are you visiting Alfred? He's so nice! Although sometimes I feel like he doesn't understand pasta."

"Try all the time, he's absolutely hopeless at cooking it!" Romano exclaims. "But give him meat, of any kind, and he can whip something up right away. He made me try ribs the other day, he did something Southern to them, and…" he trails off as he realizes he's been waxing poetic about Alfred and Feliciano doesn't even know they're dating. Damnation.

"Ve, you sound adorable together!" Feliciano squeals instead. Apparently, he's not surprised at all. Romano sputters into the phone and catches Germany, distantly questioning, "But when did they start dating? _I don't understand_."

"Augh, I don't…we're not…whatever!" he explodes. "Just…I'm catching a plane okay? Soon as I can. It'll be a long time, though. Can't you get someone else? Like Japan?"

"But Romano, only you have the key to the pantry door because I used to steal pasta out of it and then Germany started hiding wurst in it and then France drank all your wine and then you said nobody could be trusted but you!"

"Okay, okay! I get it. I'll come rescue you. I'll phone when I'm in Italy."

He hangs up and goes to go find Alfred, who is lying on a couch reading a book. Despite the front he puts up, he doesn't just play video games all day; and even though the book is Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, it still has literary merit. Kind of. For his part, the great buffoon looks up, sees Romano, and grins widely. "Hey! So I was looking into things we could do today, and I was thinking maybe we could go see this new play on Broadway. It's supposed to be super awesome! We could have dinner at your favorite place before, if you want!"

"I can't," Romano says, and when Alfred looks confused he adds, "I have to go back to Italy. Now. Today."

America drops the book. "What? But…we still have another week! What's wrong? Are you sick?" He swings his legs over the couch and comes over to Romano. "Why do you need to go back to Italy? Are you homesick? I can come with you!"

Romano thinks about that. "Um, no," he says. Feliciano and Alfred together usually result in a kitchen overflowing in pasta, Disney songs sung loudly and off-key, hysterical laughter, and general failure. Germany and Alfred results in beer, lots of it, manly talk about guns, subtle competition, and general bro-ness. He can't have Alfred working as a distraction if he plans on giving Feliciano a stern lecture about being careful.

Also about being abstinent.

Alfred's eyes flicker and he takes a step back. "Oh," he says, and his voice falls oddly flat. Romano feels frustrating rising again, the same feeling he got last time America did this odd personality switch. "Why not?"

"Because you just can't," Romano snaps. "It's going to be hard enough trying to get myself there in a rush, I can't imagine trying to get anywhere in a hurry with you!" He means that Alfred is so social they would probably start chatting with people at the airport and never leave, but clearly Alfred takes it differently.

"Oh," Alfred repeats, but his expression has crumpled and for a minute he looks so wounded Romano feels his breath catch.

"A…Alfred?" He takes a step closer. Alfred jerks back and wrinkles his nose, looking strangely bitter.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to pack," America says, voice hollow. "I can call up my private jet while you do that."

"Alfred." Romano narrows his eyes and purses his lips. Alfred continues to back away, eyes on the floor, back stiff and shoulders tense. "_Alfred_, dammit, look at me!"

America, always rebellious, instead turns around and walks back into the kitchen, where Romano can hear the phone buttons beeping and then the superpower's voice: "Hey, Lance, I need the jet. Yeah, to Italy. Uh-huh. What? No! Oh, haha, I don't know. He didn't say." Pause. "Please don't." Another pause. "Yeah, or you could take your theories and helpful suggestions and stick them up the _pussy _that you appear to have grown."

Romano decides that is quite enough, and comes storming into the kitchen, preparing to unleash a force of Italian Fury upon the other nation. "_America_!"

"What?" America turns around and gives Romano a blank look. It is disconcerting, seeing it on the normally expressive face.

"Put down. The fucking. Phone."

America stares at him, mouth slightly open. "Uh…but I was-"

"_Down_." Romano calls up every speck of mafia badass and whatnot that Alfred is always going on about and unleashes an intimidating glare. It's the same one that once made Antonio cry when he tried to steal Romano's tomatoes, and it always provides flawless results.

America mumbles, "Hey, uh, have to go," into the mouthpiece and turns the phone off, setting it on the table. "What the hell?" he demands, the minute the phone is on the table. "Don't you have to go pack or some shit? Why are you standing in the middle of the kitchen?"

"Because I want to know what the hell is going on with you!" Romano roars.

America blinks at him. "Uh, nothing? You're the one acting weird, 'Mano."

"No, don't you _dare_," Romano hisses. "I say I have to leave and you act like I just bombed your capital, or something! You did this last time, too. What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing!" Alfred insists. "I'm not allowed to be sad when you leave? You have to admit, it is a little surprising."

"Yeah, okay, but it doesn't warrant you going all funny," Romano snaps. "You know you do it, too, you look all shifty right now, which means you _know_ I'm right."

Alfred rolls his eyes and breezes by him, dropping a quick kiss on his head. "You're almost as paranoid as I was when Ivan and I were brandishing nukes at each other," he quips as he strolls down the hallway towards the stairs. "I'm just sad that you're leaving."

Romano huffs air through his nose in frustration, a habit he picked up from Alfred. "I don't think that's quite it…" he begins; then he trails off as he looks at the steps and sees Alfred tugging his shirt off. "What're you…?"

Alfred raises an eyebrow and finishes taking the shirt off in a way that shows off all the muscles in his torso and arms. The sudden rippling of golden skin renders Romano unable to really think of anything else, and he doesn't really protest when Alfred suggests, "Well, since you're leaving, why don't you let me say goodbye to you?"

"Or _I_ could say goodbye to _you_," Romano says, letting his accent thicken and roll off his tongue, because Alfred loves it when he does that.

The superpower sucks in a breath and nods fervently. "That would work too," he agrees, and they both trip trying to get upstairs as fast as possible.

. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . . .

Three days later, Romano is relaxing around his home, feeling slightly bored. America's private jet got him to Italy in record time, where he was able to free his brother, kick the potato bastard from his house, and lecture Feliciano for five hours, until North Italy had come to tears over the whole ordeal and promised Romano a year's worth of endless tomatoes if he just shut up.

Romano would have been an idiot not to agree. His throat had been sore, anyway.

Now, though, he really would rather be in America, letting Alfred drag him all over the place, spoon-feeding him gelato, forcing him into movies and theatres and parks. And cooking with the idiot may be slightly more fun than cooking by himself, because Alfred prepares the meat while Romano gets the side dishes ready, and they talk and Alfred sings and dances and does stupid things, and sometimes they have a food fight or Romano throws a rotten tomato at Alfred's head.

And then there's morning, when Alfred… "What am I _doing_?" Romano demands furiously to the empty room, and stops that train of thought in its tracks. _You're acting like a lovestruck fool_, Romano tells himself sternly, and when the doorbell rings he is actually kind of happy to get it, because he'll welcome any sort of distraction at the moment.

He takes back that thought when he opens the door and finds France and Spain on his doorstep. "No," he says immediately, and tries to shut the door.

Antonio sticks his foot in and squeals, "Romano! I have come for a visit with your big brother, Francis!"

"Big brothel," France tries, and hiccups drunkenly.

"No," Romano repeats desperately. Unfortunately, Antonio has also consumed rather a lot of alcohol, and he forces his way in with no consideration. Romano falls back helplessly and seethes. He gets his revenge by slamming the door on France's hand, and is rewarded by a shriek of pain. Tragically, both nations are now inside his house, and Antonio heads immediately for the pantry.

Thank God, it's locked. (and nobody is trapped inside it.) "Noooo," Antonio complains, and tugs futilely at the door handles. Romano sighs and comes up to his former guardian, seizing his arm and dragging him to the couch.

"You, sit. I'm going to get France."

Antonio falls over onto the cushions and says, "Disco. Sombrero fish!"

Romano doesn't even puzzle that one over. Antonio gets kind of odd when he's drunk.

He finds Francis in his kitchen, looking for wine, and singing his latest Eurovision song to himself. Romano resists the urge to kill him with one of his top-quality kitchen knives and instead says, "France, you bastard, come to the couch before I kill you."

France turns and stumbles around until Romano reluctantly grabs hold of his wrist and drags him over to join the idiot already flopped over on the cushions. Once they're both seated, he stands in front of them with his arms crossed and glares at both of them. "What do you want?" he demands.

"I love you," Antonio croons. "Why do I never see you anymore, little Italy? I love youuuu, my son!" and he tries to lurch forward to hug the Italian.

Romano dodges and shoves him back into place. "You see me every week. You pull this stunt at least that many times," he points out. "And I'm not your son! Hey, frog-face, stop picking at my couch like that, you'll damage it and that's high quality leather." Francis, who has been digging at it with his nails, stops and looks guilty.

"You probably pick at _Alfred's_ couch," Spain pouts.

Romano is thrown for a loop. "I – what?"

"You probably let _Alfred_ call you whatever he wants," Spain says, and he begins to get hysterical. "You probably let _Alfred_ hug you! You probably let _Alfred_ get drunk and show up at your house!" and he begins to cry.

"Where did you even…never mind," Romano sighs, and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Of course Spain would get silly over this. Antonio, after all, has many people that he knows, but only three or four with deep, emotional ties. Romano is one of these deep, emotional ties. And once these ties get threatened, Antonio becomes despondent.

(Or insane, as the case was during the discovery of the Americas, when Spain would walk around the house at three in the morning, bleeding from the mouth and shirtless because his disease-riddled skin hurt too much to wear a shirt over. He had taken to calling Romano "God's little lamb" then, due to an unhealthy obsession with making everyone the same religion as he was.)

"You didn't even tell me," Antonio accuses. This is true. Romano hasn't told _anyone_ about America and their relationship yet. "I thought…I thought we trusted one another," and he hiccups tragically. "Why didn't you tell me you were dating America? I would have made sure he knew not to hurt you!"

Romano is about to point out that America, despite being incredibly strong, would never hurt him when France, unexpectedly, speaks up with a slurred mess of wine-addled words. "You should be careful not to be Arthur and walk," he says wisely.

Even Antonio looks confused with that one. "What?"

"When Alfred was younger," Francis begins, waving his hands around, "England was a jerk."

"England's always been a jerk," Romano says. Antonio nods and seems to be getting over his momentary crying jag.

"But he was very mean," France insists. "He would leave Alfred alone all the time. And Alfred began to have strange fears of the dark and things and Arthur started leaving him as punishments and to teach him a lesson about rebelling, and now he is very emotionally dependant, yes?"

"No," Romano says blankly. "Can you, um, rephrase that?" He's rarely this polite to France, but the idiot's said something that has triggered the puzzle pieces in Romano's brain to start clicking together, and if the wine-loving bastard could just present it in a sensible way something very important is going to make a lot of sense.

Francis looks like he's concentrating fiercely. "Alfred didn't like to be left alone when he was little," he starts. "England was running an Empire, though, so he had to be away for long stretches of time. Alfred entered a stage where he became afraid of certain things, but Arthur told him he was being childish and to 'knock it out of him' left him for even longer. And then Alfred became angry, and scared, and tried to catch England's attention by little rebellions, but Arthur was so stressed out then that his punishment was isolating Alfred completely. It is Alfred's greatest fear, even now, you see? And eventually Alfred just couldn't stand it, and he broke away. But even now he has abandonment issues," Francis sighs, and his tone is uncharacteristically somber. (It must be the alcohol talking.) "He sees people leaving as a kind of punishment, and he fears it. It is why he is so clingy."

And everything falls into place. Alfred's desperation, his intense closeness when they first started dating, his complete shut-down when Romano tries to leave him earlier than planned, his terror at being left by Romano when he didn't expect it. "I…" he begins, shocked, and France stares at him, his blue eyes suddenly oddly sharp.

"But you wouldn't have been foolish enough to leave him alone unexpectedly, would you? Because you know that would go terribly, for him. He would undoubtedly be very emotionally distraught. And I do not deal well with people who make Alfred unhappy, non? He is very special to me, like a son."

Romano is too busy reeling with this discovery to answer. France, meanwhile, has lost his focus again and flops back against the cushions, reciting something about a revolution and wigs.

"I'm…_shit_," Romano curses, and sprints to the kitchen, snatching up the phone and feverishly dialing in his boss's number.

"Hello?" his boss sounds confused and a bit apprehensive – Romano rarely calls him out of the blue with anything pleasant to say.

"I need to get to America _now_," Romano demands, clenching the phone so tightly his hand turns white. "Get me the jet!" All nations have a private mode of transportation; Romano has a private jet, which he never uses because it seems awfully overdone. He also sounds freaking ridiculous saying 'get me the jet', like England's lame James Bond spy.

"But…you never use your jet!" Romano growls through the telephone and thinks of the precious time he's wasting.

"I. Need. To go. To America." In the background, he hears Spain fall on the floor with a thump and a giggle. France follows soon after. Dammit, he'll have to clean the carpet, because he knows exactly what they're going to be doing.

"Did…do I need to go into hiding?" Suddenly his boss sounds panicky. "Have you offended him? Don't go over there as a sacrifice! We'll go into hiding, maybe they won't go nuclear if we hide, quickly-"

"What? It's not like that! I…it's between personifications." Romano purses his lips and fidgets restlessly. "Nobody's going to die, trust me. I just need to sort some things out very quickly so can I have the damn jet?"

"…are you sure?" his boss sounds suspicious.

Now Romano understands why Feli gets along with this boss so well – they're both idiots. "Give me the jet!" he screeches, all pretense lost.

An hour later, and he's seated in the silent interior of a private jet that he's never used before. Feliciano does, apparently, if the dried pasta he finds clinging to a wall is any hint. Romano pours himself some expensive wine from the mini-bar to his left, then looks around for something to nibble on.

He finds packets of home-made pasta below the bar, where alcohol would usually go. Behind the pasta is a bin of fresh potatoes, which Romano briefly loses his shit over before he demands the attendant remove them and never allow another potato on board.

The attendant, with much scurrying and head-ducking and stammering, disposes of them. Romano spends the rest of the trip scrubbing down where the potatoes were, scrubbing the attendant's hands because she touched them, complaining quietly to himself, and stewing. 

. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . . .

He arrives in America's capital at twilight, and heads over to Alfred's house, relying on his memory. Unfortunately, DC is a confusing city; it's full of parks and white buildings and people running around with dogs. Americans are all loud and noisy and generally delighted to be alive, and Romano gets lost in the thick of things several times before he's able to locate Alfred's house, a older, three-story affair, on a peaceful tree-lined street with no other houses.

There's a few lights on and the door, typically, is unlocked. Alfred doesn't worry about intruders, because he can't die from gunshots or knives and he's freakishly strong, so overpowering a thief isn't a problem.

(Also, he has some kind of freaky illegal technology rigged up so that all parts of his house can be viewed on a computer screen in his office because there's hidden cameras everywhere, and he can activate lasers that slice neatly through human flesh should he so choose, and also Romano's pretty sure he once mentioned something about detonating a bomb if he thinks someone is trying to steal his government papers.)

Romano slips through the door. The hallway is dark and silent; unbidden, the image of Alfred lying dead, having cut his wrists in the bathtub, comes to mind. Then Romano remembers nations can't die unless someone attacks their land and people as well, and also he wouldn't care if Alfred was dead.

Really. He wouldn't. Except maybe a little, because of government stuff and the economy. And also he has a pretty entertaining sense of humor that makes meetings more bearable when he isn't being stupid. And sometimes his hugs can make you feel better. And he's a good cook with meat so it would be a shame to lose that. Oh, right, and he wouldn't visit Romano anymore and eat all his food and greet all his people with infectious enthusiasm, which would be a shame. And if he was dead Romano wouldn't really want to paint anymore, because lately all his paintings have been warm and golden and bursting with color, and Alfred lets Romano paint him naked because he's got an _unbelievable_ body—

Romano quickly stops his thoughts and moves towards the dining room, where he can hear the clink of silverware against a plate. Alfred must be eating dinner, he decides.

Altogether, to be honest, Romano is disappointed at the lack of sadness America has shown in his leaving. No mental breakdown, no attempted suicide, no house demolished in a fit of love-induced panic, not even sad music playing on the radio! If France has played a joke on him…

Thinking vengeful thoughts, Romano strides into the dining room.

And pulls up short.

America is sitting at the big table, devouring a carefully balanced dinner of chicken, green beans, and a block of cheddar cheese and bread. He's got a glass of iced tea in front of him.

Far on the other side of the table, a plate of food and a wine glass sit untouched, growing cold.

It's the saddest thing Romano's ever seen, and that's including the time Feliciano tripped over nothing and broke his wrist, ankle, and nose. "America?" he demands, taking a step forward.

America gives a shriek and leaps up, spilling his tea everywhere and spitting green beans halfway across the table. "What the _fuuuu_- gah, _Romano_?" his scream of terror quickly morphs into a confused, embarrassed tone of recognition. "What? Romano!" he repeats after a minute of staring at Romano. One fist, clutching a napkin, is still raised in the air.

"Erm, what were you planning to do?" Romano asks, staring at the napkin. Alfred swallows hard and follows his line of sight, and then he seems to realize what he's doing and he quickly drops his fist.

"I, uh…was going to smother you with a napkin?" he tries, and hides his hand behind his back. "It's…_hey_! You're _here_!"

"So it would appear," says Romano, and raises a disparaging eyebrow. Honestly, Alfred is a rather intelligent nation, but he has moments of idiocy that rival Antonio.

"But…why? I mean! Don't get me wrong, I'm totally thrilled, I _really_ missed you, but I thought you had important Italian stuff to do? Like with guns and cheeses. Those are always in Italian movies."

"Guns and…? You know what, bastard, never mind. Bigger question than the ones you have: Why didn't you tell me?"

"Um." America drops the napkin on the table and scratches his head, shuffling his feet a little. "You've lost me. Tell you what?"

"About your separation anxiety!" Romano says, and starts waving his hands around. "Frog bastard showed up at my house totally sloshed and started going on about you and Arthur and isolation as punishment, and I figured out why you act so stupid whenever I leave, because you think it's a punishment! Why didn't you tell me, bastard?" A moment of silence, and then he hastily adds, "not like I was worried, or anything. But a relationship needs to be built on mutual trust and understanding!"

Alfred goes bright red and collapses into his chair. Then he throws his arms down on the table and buries his face in them. A muffled voice rises from the arms. "This is totally embarrassinggggg, Romano, can we not talk about it?"

"No!" Romano says, and stomps a foot. "Talk about it!"

"Whhhhy?" comes an anguished groan.

"_Because it's conducive to a healthy relationship_!" Romano squawks, semi-hysterically and with flapping hands.

"Our relationship _is_ healthy," sulks Alfred from the depths of his arms.

"But your reticence on this subject is like a cancer!" Romano rages. "And we're just going to avoid it and then every time I have to leave unexpectedly or we get into a fight the cancer will only grow and multiply and soon our relationship will just be a giant tumor and it'll be in some vital region where you can't operate and then our relationship will die a slow, agonizing death and if we try to save it we'll only prolong the agony and also it will lose all its hair and then it will die and _I want a healthy relationship, dammit!"_

Alfred's face has emerged from his arms during this impassioned speech and it now appears to be struggling to pick an expression of either amusement or exasperation. "Uh. Okay. You're, um, yes. Well. Yes, okay. Let's talk, shall we?"

Romano huffs air through his nose triumphantly. "Yes. Lets."

"So, um, sounds like Francis gave you the down low?" Alfred plays with a loose string in his shirt. "I guess I just…have…abandonment issues, or something, I dunno, my therapist uses really complex terms and shit."

"You have a therapist?" Romano asks, curious.

"Yeah. It's kind of on a when-I-really-feel-depressed basis, I guess. I went a few days ago, after you, uh, left." Romano winces and feels like a jerk with that statement. "I've started coming to terms with it, though!" Alfred adds brightly. "I mean, like, I try giving you space and I don't have panic attacks when you leave…when I was dating Denmark, I practically lost my shit every time we were apart. So I'm not as clingy anymore. That's good, yeah?" He looks hopefully at Romano.

"Yes!" Romano affirms quickly, nodding his head vigorously. "Progress is good, idiot!"

"I just…it really…when I was younger…Iwasafraidofthedark," Alfred rushes, like this is some big secret. "And I asked England to stay with me because he only ever stayed for a few days and the rest of the time I was in this big house, all alone, with all these scary magic books in the library, and one was made out of human skin and creepy stuff. But he said I was acting…childish, and that if I was going to be a silly child he didn't have time to…stay with me." Alfred looks like he's just swallowed a lemon; his expression is sour and his words are forced. "And when I cried and begged and tried to prevent him from leaving…he slapped me and locked me in the house for a few months, and eventually he came back and let me out but it just…it was bad, yeah?"

Romano stares at him. "That's traumatic," he finally manages, concentrating on all the things he could do to England. Molten silver in his eyes, ears, nose and throat perhaps? He would just have to get over his fears of the other nation, first. But that shouldn't be a problem, imagining the things he did to Alfred. Romano feels white-hot rage course through him at the thought.

"I know, right?" Alfred chirps. "But yeah, that's about it. He was kind of a jerk then anyway 'cause he was an Empire and stuff. We've talked about it and it's all cool now. So I just need to work on myself and we'll be set – mmph!" he flails around when Romano swoops in and kisses him, hard and quick.

"Look, bastard, I'm only saying this once, but I think you're perfect just the way you are, and I kind of love you, and also why did you have another plate set out with wine? You hate wine."

Alfred blinks and is startled into giving a truthful answer. "Oh, uh, I was pretending you were coming home late and…erm, yeah. It's kind of pathetic." His shoulders hunch in embarrassment again.

Romano pauses and his mouth pulls down at the corners as he resists the sudden urge to cry. "Please tell me you haven't been doing this the whole time I've been gone."

"No! No, not at all. That'd be so lame. Only, uh, when I get lonely." Alfred scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and looks completely humiliated. "So, um, kind of?"

Romano stares at him. He's terrible with this kind of thing, he really is. "All right, that's it," he finally snaps.

Alfred looks alarmed. "What? What's it? Have I made you angry? I know that setting you a plate even though you aren't here is totally un-heroic but-"

Romano jerks him upright and attacks his shirt, ripping it off with a loud pinging of scattered buttons when he loses patience. "We are having sex right now," he growls, "On this table, and afterwards we are going to go up to your bed and we are going to cuddle there, dammit, whether you want to or not, and then I'm not going to let you out of my sight ever again because God knows what kind of idiotic thing you'll do without supervision."

"Oh," Alfred says in comprehension, as Romano slings him across the mahogany surface of the table. "I see. That sounds good! Actually I—_ohGodRomano_."

Romano yanks Alfred's jeans off the rest of the way and palms him through his star-spangled boxers again. "Stop talking, I'm trying to apologize," he snaps, "for being a bastard to you when you were acting stupid."

"But we're having sex, we're not talking!" America protests, even as he reaches out and enthusiastically divests Romano of his clothing.

"…apologies work with more than just words, idiot," Romano says, and whatever else he's thinking is lost in the wonderful chaos that follows.

/Author's notes!

This took me so long. Like, a week and a half. And finally I was like 'RAGEFACE' so I just got off my ass and finished it in two hours. And I didn't edit it at all, so my deepest apologies for any mistakes.

I figured Alfred would have had kind of a rough childhood – his land gets squabbled over, then England kind of uses him and then deserts him, and then there's a shitload of wars, and then he's up to his ears in debts and England's still ignoring him…must have been rough. Not that he is absolved of all blame, or anything. He definitely contributed to his problems; they weren't all England's fault.

That being said: YAY ROMERICAAAAA. They're so adorable together. I'm sorry if this oneshot was kind of a failure to read. On that note, 'Pathos' will be my next piece of work.

If I can get the idea for a Germany/America fiction out of my head.

*sighs* So many ideas, so little motivation. FANFICTION, Y U NO WRITE SELF?


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